


My Queen Bee

by Iliveinanoceanofivyandclover



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Fluffy little ficlet, M/M, kind of, like a little bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2018-12-21 15:18:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11946996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iliveinanoceanofivyandclover/pseuds/Iliveinanoceanofivyandclover
Summary: Whoops. John and Sherlock manage to get themselves temporarily turned into swans after pissing off a witch. Well, Sherlock pisses off the witch but of course John gets dragged into it. John then decides that this is the best time to admit his feelings. Because of course it is.





	My Queen Bee

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! This is just a bit of completely silly fluff that I'm hoping will put a smile on someone's face. Enjoy!?

"John, no."

"Sherlock..."

"No!"

"We have to."

"I will not!"

"It's the only way. You heard what she said."

"Yes I _heard_  what she said. I, however, have  _deduced_ differently."

John sighs, long and loud. "She turned us into bloody swans! Look at yourself! Your neck is even longer than normal, and that's saying something."

Sherlock huffs in frustrated agitation although, with his new appendages, it comes out as more of a squawk. He cranes his neck forward in both a reluctantly self conscious and fascinated manner. 

It's rather intriguing but still far from the point.

"How very observant of you, John, to have noticed such an obvious fact. Of course my neck is longer, you idiot! I am now a member of the  _Anatidae_ family. It's one of their more prominent features." The condescension in his tone could've poisoned the pond they were waddling next to. 

"Sherlock."

"No. I will not act in such a way that remains inferior to my far more superior intellect. If we're going to be swans, John, then we are going to be smart swans." 

At this point, John would've rolled his eyes back into his head and smothered his face with his hands. However, seeing as how he was missing the limbs and the mobility to do so at the moment, he merely settles for dipping his head till his orange beak is touching the ground and closing his weary, weary eyes. 

Sherlock decides to stalk off a few feet away, flapping his brilliantly white wings rapidly and muttering to himself. He lets off a few high-pitched honks every once in a while as he tantrums, causing John to snort quietly into the dirt. 

How does he even end up in these situations? Oh yes. It's because his completely mental flatmate can't manage, despite all his genius, to learn when it's time to simply shut up. 

Now he's a bloody swan slumped beside a pond in the middle of nowhere, wishing desperately for at least a cup of soothing earl gray as his incredibly  beautiful and eccentric genius attempts to rival that of a spoilt toddler with his exaggerated theatrics.

 Life really had it out for John Watson.

The sigh that comes out this time is softly tinged with sadness - heavily with fatigue. It stops Sherlock up short. He swivels around to lock sharp eyes upon the doctor, sifting swiftly through the abrupt evidence displayed. His calculations have him waddling over to John's side despite himself. 

"It's not my fault the witch is an adulteress, John."

His only response is silence. Frustrated, he continues.

"She could have been less obvious with her antics. Who am I to keep such secrets to myself, what with the husband being so stupid and ignorant? He certainly wouldn't have figured it out for himself. You of all people should understand such sentiment."

John literally flinches in pain at that heartless reminder. He lifts his head to stare incredulously at Sherlock for a moment, before shaking his head and lifting himself from the ground. The water of the little pond looks cool and inviting. Further out, he can see the other swans, real swans, gliding effortlessly along the deep blue surface. A pair of them circle each other slowly, their affluent movements an unavoidable icon of grace and love. 

 However, instead of making him sadder with a reminder of his failed relationship to Mary, their dance only serves to taunt the idea of dancing that way with the unwillingly cruel man beside him.

Why couldn't he just love normally?

"John." 

Yet another sigh. "Yes, Sherlock?" Of course he would always answer, no matter what.

"What did she say again?"

"I know you hardly forgot that, you berk."

"Just tell me."

Can one sigh too much in one's lifetime? "She said we would remain in this form until we learned what it properly meant to be birds. Whatever that means. So I guess we've got to act like real swans. For some reason." 

"Right. Excellent. We should go for a swim then, yes?" The words were spoken in  uncharacteristic hesitance. Almost apologetically.

John turns to look at the consulting detective, who looks back meekly,  head titled in ascension. 

He smiles forgivingly. Or, as much as one can smile with a beak.

"Probably."

So, like with all things, Sherlock dives in head first. Well, more like he flops wobbly into the water, which turns out to be quite colder than its appearance, causing the detective to resurface with an undignified honk. The swans in the distance honk back indignantly at his disturbance of their calm night. He harrumphs before straightening himself out, beginning to kick gently through the water, fascinated by the experience as a whole. John watches him for a moment on the brown shore. Droplets of silver-beaded water roll off Sherlock's smooth white wings, bejeweling his magnificent and pale frame in brief intervals. His eyes are alight with the same childish glee that envelopes him at the beginning of a new study or the addition to a new body part within their fridge. He takes to the water with the same easy grace that he takes to the streets of London.

John notes quickly that the unique beauty of Sherlock Holmes has not been hindered by his new form. And that he is still in love with the feathery brat as much as he is with the lanky jerk.

"Why couldn't she have turned us into bees?" Sherlock's sudden grumbling shakes John away from his thoughts. He waddles in much less gracefully after him. 

"Sorry, what?"

Sherlock groans in aggravation. " Bees, John! Why couldn't we have been bees?" He seems genuinely upset that he isn't one at this very moment, never mind that the situation they would be in that case would've been just as dire. Still, John knows how much Sherlock admires the little fuzzy creatures. 

" So you want to be a little bumbler, eh?" He teases playfully, swimming slowly up beside Sherlock. 

"Don't be obtuse. It doesn't suit you." Insult/compliment aside, John melts at the unveiled wistfulness in his partner's tone.

The words are out before he can stop them.

"I'm glad she didn't turn us into bees."

Sherlock looks as if John had struck him whilst  simultaneously defending Anderson's complete lack of intelligence. John quickly presses on.

"I'm glad she didn't, because if she did then you would've certainly  been the queen bee and I'd have to share you."

He freezes. Oh god, did he just say that? Did he really just say that? Just basically expose himself like that to a  _genius?_

God, was he really that cheesy?

Slowly, so slowly, he looks up at his fellow swan. Sherlock is staring back, his beak slightly parted in complete awe. 

Wait, where's the anger? The repulsion? The rejection? The 'oh John you're such an idiot'?  

Instead, Sherlock is gazing at John as if the galaxy had suddenly showered him with warm honey and arranged him artfully on a yellow and black striped platter. 

It makes him feel both incredibly warm and incredibly wary. He gulps audibly.

And then Sherlock is magically beside him, their wings pressed together so tightly that the faint lines of their differential feathers are blurring. And the detective is positively smirking at John with that damn beak of his, eyes glinting dangerously in the evening's light. A glint that calls to John- has him leaning in unconsciously closer towards the dangerous siren.

"You'd fancy a queen bee, wouldn't you John? You would serve her diligently, without reservation, giving her the sweet honey she needs in order to continue the hive's existence." His voice is deep and sultry. It should be disconcerting, coming from Sherlock the Swan. Instead, it has John wondering whether or not he can successfully become aroused in his current state. 

Sherlock is looking at him hungrily and blatantly with those eager gray eyes in a way that is so foreign and so familiar to John. Warmly. "We should most definitely swim now, John. The sooner we return to our former selves, the better." His words hold a plethora of pleasurable promises.

John, who is suddenly entertaining thoughts of Sherlock in yellow and black knee high socks and nothing else, can only nod in shocked agreement. 

Together, they begin to circle each other in calm, intertwined circles. Mimicking the pair of coupled swans dancing peacefully beyond. 

He would swim with this crazy, crazy swan. Then he would dance with his Queen. 

 

 

 


End file.
